I have a relatively small metal trashcan in my kitchen that needs to be emptied more often than I'd like. This is probably a good thing though, because my apartment has a habit of becoming intensely smelly in a very short amount of time. Usually I wait until it is positively overflowing with nasty, juicy trash before I take it to the dumpster. This is because I absolutely hate the back stairwell that leads to the alley behind my apartmen.
I am on the second floor at the very end of the hallway, which is right next to the building's back stairwell. Since this is the "back stairwell", no one ever made the effort to make it presentable. The stairs are made of wood which has severely deteriorated over time, and the walls are concrete cinder blocks. As you walk down these stairs, you have to be very sure not to let your head graze the bottoms of the stairs above you, seeing as they are almost always dripping some kind of goo. When you finally get to the ground level, there is this creepy area right by the door that always reeks of urine and has a giant rust-colored stain on the floor which I try not to think is most likely blood. Asides from the creep factor of these stairs, the door leading to the dumpster out back is extremely inconvenient. You almost always have to take your trash out on your way out of the building, because the door locks behind you and there is no way to get back into the building but to walk around the block and come back in the front doors. I should probably be thankful for this since it is clearly a safety measure, but it is indescribably annoying when you get locked out of your building with trash juice on your hands and you're in your pajamas. (Luckily, I have had my keys with me every time this has happened, so that I can get back in the front doors. Also, my keys don't open the back door. Another safety measure, I presume.)
But Alex, why don't you just prop the door open?
Don't think I haven't thought of that good people of the internet. But remember how I said that I usually wait until my trash is overflowing before I take it out? This is almost always a two-arm job, leaving me totally incapable of propping the door open. Also, on the rare occasion that I have an extra hand for propping, I can't find anything that I would willingly touch with my bare hand that would be heavy enough to keep the door open.
This brings me to my disturbing trash adventure story. Usually I don't encounter anyone on my way down the trash stairs, but every once in a while, there will be maintenance workers or bus driver hanging around the back alley, just chilling or talking on their walkie-talkies. There was one time though, that I happened across a particularly despondent old man squatting in the bottom of the stairwell. I was coming down the stairs and was already at the door before I knew anyone was there. It wasn't until I turned around to push the door open with my back that I caught him staring at me from a pile of blankets in the corner. I tried to disguise my surprise with an awkward "hello" before running out the door. I figured he was most likely harmless, but I still wasn't going to go through that door again that day. As I was circling the block to come back to the front of my building, I realized that I recognized the stairwell man. He was whom I had previously referred to as "Mattress Man" in my head.
The first time I had ever taken a walk down my block after moving in, I had learned that going towards campus is fine, but going towards the city = ghetto. (By my sheltered, suburban-grown white girl standards at least.) There is an empty lot on the end of my corner that is almost completely populated by weeds. I say almost because as I was taking my first observational walk around my new neighborhood, I found this old man laying in the lot on a pile of old mattresses. This appeared to be his home and I've seen him there from time to time.
As I realized that "Stair Man" and "Mattress Man" were the same, I became almost thankful that he had been resourceful enough to find a better living space for the coming winter, and that I should ask him how he managed to get in so that I wouldn't have to walk around the universe every time I locked myself out.
Then I realized that I should be terrified that some old hobo is squatting in the stairwell of my apartment building. It makes me nervous to think that I am responsible for my own life. And that is yet another reason I am not a survivor.
P.S., I have only seen Stair/Mattress Man in my building twice, so I would venture to say he has found more suitable--and legal--living quarters since our last encounter.
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Why I'm Not at the "Yelle" Concert Right Now
My boyfriend tries to take me to concerts with him almost every month, and I have declined his offers all but one time. It's not because I am some soulless robot who doesn't enjoy music or fun, I just don't like concerts. It's probably because the majority of my concert experiences have ended in pain and anguish.
(And when I say concert, I mean like going to see an actual band or person perform music. Not like an orchestra or a ballet or something. Those are always enjoyable if you can stay awake.)
The first concert that I ever went to was a sit-down Micheal Bubble concert in Philly, which was awesome. No hard feelings whatsoever.
The second was not nearly as enjoyable. It was at Festival Pier and it was the Soundtrack of Your Summer Tour. The bands that played were The Main, Boys Like Girls, Good Charlotte, and Metro Station. Naturally, it was full of screaming semi-emo girls and douche bags. I was initially excited for it because I was with my friends and we were girls and it was summer and blah blah blah teen angst. But as the concert dragged on, I realized how much I was going to regret this experience. During the first set, I had to change into a Piggly Wiggly tshirt because the sweater that I had worn got covered in orange soda. People thought it was funny to spend 6 dollars on beverages, take the caps off, and then throw them into the crowd. Idiots. By the time the sun set, they were starting to sell alcohol. (Which, in retrospect, confuses me. How many people who are of legal age to purchase alcohol would actually attend this concert? It is beyond me.) Anyway, Bud Lites were soon being thrown into the crowd as well, and there was a couple behind me smoking pot. By about 9pm, I was soaked in beer and orange soda and I smelled like a head shop, not to mention that my back was protesting in agonizing pain from standing pushed up against sweaty half-naked teenagers for so long. Finally, Good Charlotte came out. I say finally because they were supposed to be the second to last band to play and I was already ready to get out of there. Their music was so incredibly loud that I thought the sub woofers were going to give me heart arrhythmia. Of course, my more adventurous friend decided that she wanted to get closer, and inadvertently herded us into the center of a then-raging mosh pit full of kids with spikes on their necklaces, too many jelly bracelets, doc martins, and unnatural hair colors. I got punched in the back of the head several times, and was absolutely positive that I was going to die.
Before
Eventually, the concert ended and I returned home to my father to face an interrogation on why I was covered in beer and soda and reeked of pot.
The third concert that I attended was actually more out of obligation than anything else. I had no real desire to go see the return of the Spice Girls concert, but I did end up going. (When you say "return of the Spice Girls" it sounds like a bad 50s horror movie.)
They're missing one...IT'S BECAUSE SHE'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU AAARRGGH!
Anyway, my step mom and step sisters were really into Spice, so my tickets were already bought for me before I could decline the offer. It was at the then Wachovia Center, and we had pretty bad seats. It's ironic that I say "seats" because I was not allowed to sit in mine for the duration of the concert, which I thought was a load of crap.
The last concert that I went to was with my boyfriend, which was actually kind of enjoyable. It was at the Plazza in Northern Liberties, and it was a free Matt & Kim concert. We went with a few of his friends and we met up with more once we were there. I had only experienced moshing once before, and so I was inadequately prepared this experience. Girls were crowd surfing, people were punching each other on purpose, and pushing around and sweating and yelling and tripping on acid. (Come on people, it's Matt & Kim. Really?) At one point, my boyfriend had to catch this one girl out of the air before she fell and broke herself. She looked at him like she had never wanted to bone anyone so bad in her life , and I had to be all "bitch, gtfo." (Not really though, because I probably would have gotten beat up and I am a wuss.) Anyway, I had to use my boyfriend and this other girl as human battering rams so that I wouldn't get totally destroyed by the giant men in front of me who thought it was the best thing ever to push people around and scream and punch at the air.
By the end of the concert, I was still intact and did enjoy myself a reasonable amount. We were meeting back up with the people we came with and were walking out of the venue when we realized that one of my boyfriend's friend's tshirts was dripping with blood.
US: OMG WHAT HAPPENED ARE YOU OK!?
HIM: What?
US: Dude, you're totally covered in blood.
HIM: Oh, man. That's not mine
US:...ew
All of these experiences coupled with the fact that I don't dance makes me truly dread going to concerts. Tonight, Yelle is playing at Union Transfer, and although I do enjoy her music, I made sure that I graciously declined my boyfriend's invitation so that I could stay here, safe in my warm albeit haunted apartment. And that's the story of how I became the biggest loser I know.
(And when I say concert, I mean like going to see an actual band or person perform music. Not like an orchestra or a ballet or something. Those are always enjoyable if you can stay awake.)
The first concert that I ever went to was a sit-down Micheal Bubble concert in Philly, which was awesome. No hard feelings whatsoever.
The second was not nearly as enjoyable. It was at Festival Pier and it was the Soundtrack of Your Summer Tour. The bands that played were The Main, Boys Like Girls, Good Charlotte, and Metro Station. Naturally, it was full of screaming semi-emo girls and douche bags. I was initially excited for it because I was with my friends and we were girls and it was summer and blah blah blah teen angst. But as the concert dragged on, I realized how much I was going to regret this experience. During the first set, I had to change into a Piggly Wiggly tshirt because the sweater that I had worn got covered in orange soda. People thought it was funny to spend 6 dollars on beverages, take the caps off, and then throw them into the crowd. Idiots. By the time the sun set, they were starting to sell alcohol. (Which, in retrospect, confuses me. How many people who are of legal age to purchase alcohol would actually attend this concert? It is beyond me.) Anyway, Bud Lites were soon being thrown into the crowd as well, and there was a couple behind me smoking pot. By about 9pm, I was soaked in beer and orange soda and I smelled like a head shop, not to mention that my back was protesting in agonizing pain from standing pushed up against sweaty half-naked teenagers for so long. Finally, Good Charlotte came out. I say finally because they were supposed to be the second to last band to play and I was already ready to get out of there. Their music was so incredibly loud that I thought the sub woofers were going to give me heart arrhythmia. Of course, my more adventurous friend decided that she wanted to get closer, and inadvertently herded us into the center of a then-raging mosh pit full of kids with spikes on their necklaces, too many jelly bracelets, doc martins, and unnatural hair colors. I got punched in the back of the head several times, and was absolutely positive that I was going to die.
After
The third concert that I attended was actually more out of obligation than anything else. I had no real desire to go see the return of the Spice Girls concert, but I did end up going. (When you say "return of the Spice Girls" it sounds like a bad 50s horror movie.)
Anyway, my step mom and step sisters were really into Spice, so my tickets were already bought for me before I could decline the offer. It was at the then Wachovia Center, and we had pretty bad seats. It's ironic that I say "seats" because I was not allowed to sit in mine for the duration of the concert, which I thought was a load of crap.
The last concert that I went to was with my boyfriend, which was actually kind of enjoyable. It was at the Plazza in Northern Liberties, and it was a free Matt & Kim concert. We went with a few of his friends and we met up with more once we were there. I had only experienced moshing once before, and so I was inadequately prepared this experience. Girls were crowd surfing, people were punching each other on purpose, and pushing around and sweating and yelling and tripping on acid. (Come on people, it's Matt & Kim. Really?) At one point, my boyfriend had to catch this one girl out of the air before she fell and broke herself. She looked at him like she had never wanted to bone anyone so bad in her life , and I had to be all "bitch, gtfo." (Not really though, because I probably would have gotten beat up and I am a wuss.) Anyway, I had to use my boyfriend and this other girl as human battering rams so that I wouldn't get totally destroyed by the giant men in front of me who thought it was the best thing ever to push people around and scream and punch at the air.
By the end of the concert, I was still intact and did enjoy myself a reasonable amount. We were meeting back up with the people we came with and were walking out of the venue when we realized that one of my boyfriend's friend's tshirts was dripping with blood.
US: OMG WHAT HAPPENED ARE YOU OK!?
HIM: What?
US: Dude, you're totally covered in blood.
HIM: Oh, man. That's not mine
US:...ew
All of these experiences coupled with the fact that I don't dance makes me truly dread going to concerts. Tonight, Yelle is playing at Union Transfer, and although I do enjoy her music, I made sure that I graciously declined my boyfriend's invitation so that I could stay here, safe in my warm albeit haunted apartment. And that's the story of how I became the biggest loser I know.
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